I woke up to the sound of my alarm. It was 11 a.m.—an hour before my shift. I got dressed in a hurry and headed out, ignoring my uncle slumped in the living room with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle in the other. He didn't ask where I was going. He never did. Probably too drunk to notice.
It didn't matter. I didn't expect anything from him anymore.
I made it to work on time and reported to my supervisor. I was working as a cleaner in one of the nicer hotels in town. It wasn't legal for someone my age, but I had begged for this job. I remembered the day I cried in the manager's office, telling him everything. Somehow, my story moved him, and he gave me a chance.
My supervisor was kind to me. Maybe it was pity, or maybe he saw something in me—I didn't care. I was just thankful for the opportunity.
In moments like these, I silently thanked my parents for raising me the way they did. Even though we had wealth, I never got things handed to me. My father always said, "You have to earn what you get, sweetheart. Nothing comes on a silver platter."
He was right.
I'd be nineteen in two months, and life was already teaching me the truth in those words.
After finishing two of the three rooms assigned to me, I headed to the last one. My supervisor had emphasized this one—Room 307.
"Clean it well," he said. "We've got a special guest staying there."
I adjusted my uniform, knocked gently, and called out, "Room service!"
"You can come in," a low, husky voice replied.
Something about that voice made my heart flutter with nervous energy. I usually hated cleaning rooms with guests still inside—especially men—but I took a deep breath and stepped in.
As protocol required, I wasn't supposed to interact with guests — just clean and leave. So, I ignored the man whose back was turned toward me. He stood at the balcony, strumming softly on his guitar, his white shirt rippling in the breeze.
I started with the mopping, careful not to disturb him. Then, I moved to the bed, intending to change the sheets. Oddly, they were perfectly spread — not a crease in sight. It looked untouched.
"Leave the bed as it is," he said suddenly, his deep, gravelly voice drifting over from the balcony.
"I'm supposed to change the sheets after every stay," I replied, cautiously stepping toward him.
"Tell your manager I said no," he snapped.
"Alright," I said quietly, forcing a polite smile. "Have a nice stay."
Grabbing my mop bucket, I walked out, grateful that work was over for the day. But the thought of going back home made my stomach twist.
If only today were payday, I thought, tying my apron in the changing room. Then I could go to the party.
As I adjusted my hair in the mirror, a cold panic gripped me.
My necklace. It was gone.
Heart pounding, I searched my bag, my pockets, the corners of the room. Nothing. I'd had it earlier — I even remembered clutching it when entering the last room, praying I wouldn't meet a creep. My stomach dropped.
I must've lost it there.
I ran back to the guest room and rang the bell.
No answer.
I rang it again. Still nothing.
The third time, silence again. I turned to leave, gut sinking — then the door clicked open. I rushed back.
"Hi! It's me. I think I lost my necklace in your room," I said, catching my breath.
"Your necklace?" he repeated, not turning around.
"Yes. It's really important to me. Could I please come in and look for it?"
"I mind," he said flatly. "You can't."
"It'll only take a minute — I promise. You can even watch me if you want. I just really need to find it," I pleaded, hating how desperate I sounded.
A pause. Then, "Fine," he said, walking wordlessly back to the balcony.
The room was silent, his back still turned. I stepped in, scanning the floor.
"Hello?" I called softly. No reply.
I began searching: under the bed, the sides, the corners of the nightstand. Nothing. Panic crawled up my spine.
Then something caught the light — a faint glimmer on the neatly made bed.
I darted forward and snatched it up. My necklace. Relief flooded me.
"Thank God…" I whispered.
"You can leave now," he said without turning. I glanced at the balcony.
Can he see me from there?
Curiosity pulled me closer.
"Thanks again," I said, walking toward him, unable to stop myself.
He was tall, broad-shouldered. His shirt clung to a well-defined back. A black tattoo curled down his forearm, though I couldn't make out the design. There was something raw, untouchable about him.
"It's a nice view out there, isn't it?" I asked gently.
"I said leave," he snapped, his tone clipped and cold.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you," I said quickly, retreating and slipping out the door.